The NEW home of the OH SO PRETTY Hillbilly Mom, nestled in the heart of DoNotLand, where the Gummi Mary appeared on a plate of melted Gummi Bears and was unceremoniously half-devoured by a DoNot, and dumped in the wastebasket. The excitement of that day was rivaled only by the New Year's Day trip to Save-A-Lot, where a woman followed Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, stroked her arm, asked if she was married, and declared, "You are SO PRETTY."

Saturday, March 6, 2010

All Things In Moderation

Call the excess police! Do it now! Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is going to have a fit.

Chicken H has struck again. In a cowardly manner. While I was in Save-A-Lot buying peaches in light syrup and little breadstick dippy cheese snacks and a case of water, Chicken H called The Pony, who was cooling his heels in T-Hoe, to tell him he had just bought six more chickens. SIX! We already have 22. Upon returning his call, I was informed by Chicken H that this was a perfectly justifiable transaction, because they were just pullets. You know, like they're not going to grow into full-size chickens. Furthermore, some of the 22 chickens are getting ready to be killed, according to Chicken H, so they can be eaten. Not by my mouth. And not by The Pony or #1. We're funny about do-it-yourself fowl dishes.

Oh, and Chicken H went on to say that these pullets must stay in the Mansion, or they will freeze to death, but not to worry, they have had their shots. Something tells me these shots of which he speaks are not going to keep those pullets from pooping. When asked what kind of chickens they were, for example, a type such as Rhode Island Red, Leghorn, Plymouth Rock, etc., Chicken H replied, "They're Pullets." I swear, it was like Frank Costanza asking, "Let me understand, you got the hen, the chicken and the rooster. The rooster goes with the chicken. So, who's having sex with the hen?" Chicken H next tried to describe them. "They're brown with a black stripe down their back. They lay speckled eggs. Not speckled eggs. Colored eggs. Yeah. They lay colored eggs." He admitted that no, he had not bothered to ask what kind of chickens they were, and probably should have. But he assured me that they were all hens.

Reeling from chicken overload, I proceeded to the Post Office that smells like a dead mouse to buy some stamps while I still can on Saturday, and from there to buy some outrageously-priced gas, and on to The Devil's Playground. The Devil is cutting corners. Apparently, he does not expect customers to shop at 9:30 on a Saturday morning, so he only opens three 20-items or less checkouts, and two normal ones. Because nobody shops on Saturdays, you know.

I took the first normal checkout closest to my exit. There was a man emptying an overflowing cart. At first, I gave him props because he was unloading pile after pile of Great Value items, like every vegetable known to man, and 10 cans of tuna, and numerous boxes and bags of staples. I pegged him as a daycare provider's husband, or a once-a-month paycheck kind of guy. Then he turned around and stared at me. Several times. It was put two piles on the conveyor, and stare at me. I was getting perturbed. Am I not human? Do I not lash out when provoked? Can I not stand in line as the next customer while he unloads? Another dude pulled up behind me. I tapped my toes. I sighed. It had been 10 minutes. But Thrifty Guy was almost to the bottom of his cart. I was next. Then it happened. Thrifty Guy's missus wheeled up another overflowing cart, passed up me and After-Me Dude, and parked it beside Thrifty Guy's almost-empty cart. "Here's the rest of it," she said, and scurried away. Thrifty Guy mumbled something to her, and she said, "Well, I didn't think you were going to get in line!"

I was having none of it. The good part of being at the first normal checkout is that there is not another one blocking you in. It was clear sailing to the 20-items-or-less area. The bad part is that someone can bypass you with a full cart and cut in line. Anyhoo, I wheeled around and told After-Me Dude, "I'm taking my chances on another line." I took off to the other end of the store to the other normal checkout, where there was NO ONE waiting. I dumped out my stuff, forked over my debit card info, and rolled back to my exit. On the way, I wheeled with dramatic flourish past After-Me Dude, who was still not able to put his goodies on the conveyor. Mrs. Thrifty Guy had joined her old man, and they were trying to fit their survivalist cache back into their carts. I would furthermore disparage them for using a food stamp card, but I am sure they paid cash, because those food stamp card people buy steak and shrimp and brand names, not Great Value.